Barefoot Blues
by glanmire
Summary: Bilbo walks barefoot, which was fine until he caught a cold for the first time because they were going through marshes and someone didn't have boots. Thorin is no help, until he is, and for once Kili and Fili actually do good, and Bofur too.


Bilbo had told them all about the wonders about hobbit feet. He had spent many an afternoon discussing in depth how the soles were stronger than a dwarves, how he didn't need boots. In hindsight, he had been a bit too self-assured, but it had all been fine, until they reached the marshes.

The land was wet and oozing, and wanted to suck you in and chew on your bones. Tufts of grass grew in patches across the bog, but could not be trusted to support your weight. Wagers were made on who would fall in first, and most betted on Thorin or Bombur; Thorin because he was notoriously clumsy and fell with great frequency, and Bombur simply because no one expected the marshes to support his weight.

It was actually Dori who fell in first, which was unexpected.

Glóin of course got extremely riled up about it and accused Dori of foul play, saying that he had thrown himself in, knowing Nori had bet on him so they would both make a tidy profit out of it.

Nothing was proved but Glóin and Óin refused to speak to Nori and Dori for two days.

Ori was baffled by the whole affair, and tried to make peace between the two groups, and was ignored by both.

It seemed like the beginning of a decent feud until Thorin intervened with a moving speech about how there could not be discord within the Company, that they all needed to work together.

That was all well and fine until he imposed a new rule that there was to be no more betting in the Company. It was not well received, and in fact caused more discord than it solved, but that was a typical Thorin solution for you.

Their trip through the marshes seemed to be going quite well all in all though, until Bilbo coughed.

It was a massive sort of cough that began in depths of his lungs and ripped through his body, and he half-yelped with the shock of it.

"Alright Bilbo?", Kili asked cheerfully, holding his bag high above his head. They were half-walking, half-wading through a particularly wet patch, and Kili was about the last one left who was still in reasonably good spirits.

"Ah yes, just a cough I suppose", Bilbo said, with a sudden longing for his handkerchief.

"I've actually never coughed before."

"You what?" Bofur asked, turning around to face him.

"Um, I've never coughed before?"

The two dwarves stared at him.

"Is there something strange about that?"

Kili and Bofur exchanged a look. Bofur got words out first.

"Well no, I suppose there isn't. Have you never got sick at all then?"

"No, I haven't, why?"

This provoked even odder looks from the dwarves.

They talked about it for the next few hours, and concluded that the Shire was a warm place, and though hobbits travelled barefoot, their feet never had the chance to get cold.

But for the dwarves on the other hand, halls carved of cold, unforgiving stone were the norm, and although fires roared in every room, there was never true warmth there. You would never find a dwarf ambling around barefoot on such cold stone.

Bilbo hadn't even considered it when they'd left, but now that they mentioned it, getting his feet wet constantly was probably not the wisest of decisions. They were thick-skinned, but by no means water-proof. He didn't even own a pair of boots.

He coughed again. Kili looked quite worried.

"You'll be okay Bilbo. Everyone comes down with a cold now and then."

Bilbo nodded, though his throat was felt thick when he swallowed.

That night, they made a pitiful sort of camp. The dwarves were well prepared for the marshes, and had produced the strangest blanket Bilbo had ever seen on their first night crossing them.

It was made of many different animal hides stitched together to make a patch-work of fur and skin, and covered a decent area of ground.

They lay it out flat and then all found a spot of their own on it.

Fili had explained at Bilbo's look.

"It keeps out the worst of the wet, see? When you've got no dry land to camp on its not too shabby at all."

He supposed it wasn't, but the thing stank; after the first night the underside of it was drenched, but the dwarves paid little heed to that. They didn't seem to mind any sort of odour really- Bilbo often wondered if they had a sense of smell at all.

You did not know pain until more than a dozen pairs of sweaty, putrid boots were taken off around you, and left there all night, the odour assaulting you.

On top of that, there was no dry wood to be found in the marshes, and it was perhaps the most miserable night's sleep Bilbo had ever had. That was only night one.

Night two, and he was coughing, a deep rattling cough that actually hurt, and he kept bringing up thick dark-green phlegm, and then he'd spit it into the dark waters beyond their camp. Swallowing the stuff seemed disgusting.

It was about an hour after Bilbo thought everyone else had gone to sleep when a voice said gruffly,

"Can't you do anything about that bloody cough?", though quietly enough so as not to wake the others.

It was Thorin. He was an insomniac at the best of times, and Bilbo often saw him curled like a cat under his furs, eyes still bright in the darkness long after everyone else had found sleep.

Thorin often relived others of their watch duty, saying there was no need for them to lose their sleep when he was awake anyway.

"My apologies", Bilbo hissed back, in not a very apologetic manner at all, it had to be said. It was hardly his fault he had fallen ill.

He coughed again, and needed a second to get his breath back after- he knew nothing about coughs, but reckoned that his was quite serious. He decide then and there not to complain about it though. The dwarves were not the naturally sympathetic types.

There was a prolonged silence, and even if Bilbo knew that Thorin wasn't asleep, he was ignoring Bilbo most like.

But a response came a while later.

"Have Óin see what he can do in the morning", which was strangely kind.

Bilbo didn't know what to say to that, and stayed silent. They both lay there in the mass of sleeping dwarves, the silence only punctuated by his own erratic coughs and Dwalin's deep snores.

The next morning, Bilbo felt ridiculously weak. He couldn't breathe through his nose at all, and his limbs felt like they were carved of stone.

Hobbits didn't know much about illness, but the few that had fallen sick had quite enjoyed the experience; tea was made for you and brought on a tray to your bedside, and you weren't expected to lift a hand until you were better. It hadn't sounded awfully bad.

This was not the case with dwarves, and Bilbo knew better than to mention his symptoms to them. He heaved his pack on and got ready to leave, feeling like shit, if he was being honest with himself.

He coughed, his throat raw, and it aggravated him so much that he made his way over to Óin, who was not the easiest dwarf to talk to.

He caught Óin's attention, and waited patiently until he had located his ear-trumpet and had it in place.

"Is there anything you can do for this cough?"

"What cough?"

Of course Óin wouldn't have heard it. Now he felt like a prat.

The urge to cough was always there, though he was trying to do it as little as possible. He gave in, and it felt like it was ripping his throat open.

"Ahh. That cough."

Óin went to root around in his bag, and emerged with a handful of leaves.

"Chew on these, they'll soothe the throat a bit. Nothing I can do for the cough itself though."

"Thanks Óin" Bilbo said, and meant it.

They left then, for another day of drudgery and being soaked to the bone. He stuffed the leaves into his mouth, and got to work on them, and they cooled the burning in his throat a little. He resisted the impulse to swallow them all in one go. These had to last him until that night at least.

It was nearly midday. He had eaten the last of the leaves hours ago. He was not quite so good at rationing as he thought when pain was involved. He coughed again, and almost felt faint, but pressed on.

"Bilbo, c'mere" Bofur beckoned. He was near the back of the group with Kili and Fili, who usually scouted, though in fairness there was nothing to see except more bog for leagues around.

He made his way over, his head throbbing.

"Give us the pack then" Fili said, and for one absurd moment Bilbo thought they were robbing him.

He handed over his pack and the dwarves quickly divided its contents between them, and handed him back an empty bag.

"We thought it'd make it easier on you, you know, being sick and all" Kili said, mad Bilbo was struck by their unexpected kindness.

"My thanks" he said, not even protesting, because it was such a relief.

"Don't mention it" Bofur said, and they marched on, discussing methods of starting a now illegal gambling club within the Company without catching Thorin's attention.

It was nearly dusk when Bilbo coughed so hard he fell from the force off it, right off the mucky-grass path and into the water.

Maybe it was best, after all, that he hadn't a pair of boots, because if he had, the weight of them surely would have drowned him.

Bofur, Kili and Fili had also contributed in saving his life, because the weight of his pack would have dragged him under too. As it was, it was very close.

He had never really been a strong swimmer, and when he had been in water, it was the clear kind that you could cut through with a stroke.

This water was dirty brown and thick, oozing with mud and soil and the bones of other drowned creatures. It sucked on him like it was a living entity, hungry.

He sunk into the earth like a stone dropping, and it tasted like dishwater as it got down his throat and down his neck and under his clothes. He flailed uselessly, and it only seemed to serve to make him sink faster, propelled down.

And Bilbo was so tired. He'd fought and fought and couldn't he just rest already, didn't he deserve that-

There was a rocking motion, and he was on top of a mountain that was somehow moving.

He gasped, one long thin breath, and then coughed for a long time, his head spinning, his vision lost momentarily. The motion continued, and it was soothing, like he was being carried-

"Put me down" he said firmly, yet his voice was nearly gone.

"Bilbo!" Bofur said from behind him, relieved. "We thought we'd lost you for a moment there."

Bilbo didn't care much about that for the moment. "I said, put me down!"

Thorin stopped in his tracks, and abruptly dumped Bilbo onto the ground from where he had been slung over his back. He did not look quite as pleased as Bofur.

Balin, who was nearby, smiled. "Sorry about that laddie, I know it wasn't the -", and he paused, looking for the word, "most comfortable option, but we had to move on, and Thorin was the only one who could take your weight."

Bilbo wasn't positive about that. Bombur must be nearly as strong as Thorin, and Dwalin as well. He wasn't all that heavy. Still, he appreciated that they hadn't choose to dump him in the middle of the marshes, cut their losses and move on.

"Thank you" he called out to Thorin, who had already walked away, and Bilbo wasn't sure if his thanks were heard. Well he wasn't going to say it twice.

He picked himself up, and started walking again. His friends refused to give him his gear back for the while, and for that he was grateful. They pressed on.


End file.
